The weather is honestly ridiculous. The heat is oppressive; it's late afternoon and the sky is half cloud cover, enough to bowl in the stifling swelter, and the half which is clear blasts sunlight beneath the clouds and against the windows of the high-rises and skyscrapers.

Moira is kicked back in the sidewalk seating of an expensive cafe, shaded by a big green canvas umbrella and a pair of oversized sunglasses, the chaos of her hair coiled into a heavy knot at the back of her head. She's wearing silly little gold gladiator sandals and a little black tube-dress, skintight, obscene against the white of her thighs and only vaguely tempered by the sloppy white tank-top she wears over it, large enough to slide off of one snaky shoulder and travel towards the crook of her arm. She's sucking on an iced coffee-and-Bailey's, and seems to have basically settled on a sort of post-college twenty-and-change pseudoyuppie look, gently chainsmoking, nails painted a pale matte silvery colour and face unmadeup. Perhaps it's inappropriate to look so close to the age of one's daughter.

There are very few men who can pull off a bright red suit. Amor is one of them. He pretty much has to be. It looks good on him-- the red against olive skin and dark hair, and so sleek and bright and well-designed that maybe there should be a Ferrari logo on it somewhere. (There isn't.) His sunglasses and shoes are both black and shiny, and overall it's a stupid sort of thing to be wearing in the heat, but he likes the heat.

He's not the sort of God who'd make sure he's totally unaffected by it, either. Oh no, Amor is all for sensory input, and his collar wilting slightly against his neck, the few beads of perspiration at his brow-- these things are wonderful to him. His hair is sex rumpled, or sleep rumpled, or a little bit sweaty. Probably some combination.

He drops into the chair opposite her, suddenly in the possession of an ice chai. He takes a couple sips and stares into traffic, and doesn't actually say anything- just looks at her once in awhile. Amor's an outgoing creature, but he's not quite sure what to say to Moira, who's basically Death's girlfriend (without any help from Amor.) He definitely looks like he wants to say something, though.

Well, anyway, Amor not really having any experience with reticence, he probably comes across more as creepy than anything.

Moira looks up and dimples from beneath her enormous glasses.

"Seu Amor," she says inanely, and leans over the table and (without any help from Amor) kisses the god on the cheek. "Lovely! How was holidays?"

Muggy weather always makes her effulgent.

He's surprised enough to hear his name that he turns towards her, and so he's a little less surprised by the kiss; if he hadn't seen it coming, he may have blushed. (There's no point in becoming jaded, after all.)

Instead, he grins at her; his kind of lady! "Holidays were lovely! I decided to keep the tan."

Decided to keep the entire Look, apparently. Italians were so much fun.

"How's Az?" This may seem like a pretty innocuous question, but it's clear from his smirk and the care he takes in saying it that he isn't inquiring about the God of Death's well-being.

Moira smiles, some odd Moira combination of slick and guileless, leaning forward to put her elbows and breasts onto the tabletop.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you don't know." The smile turns into a grin and she sucks coffee sludge from the bottom of her cup. "Anyway, he spoils me."

Theoretically she has the right to be a little smug. It's not every girl that gets to die whenever she wants. And the whole dating and sex thing, okay, yes, that also.

He's seen women do the tables-and-breasts thing, and he'd always thought it was splendid. Very innovative.

He drinks some of his own chai, is if prompted by her. Sometimes he forgets to do things like drink the drink in his hand, and he always feels a little bit as if he'd missed his cue.

"Actually, I don't know," he confesses; he likes to tell himself he hadn't quite gotten around to it, but really, it freaks him out. Just a little. "So, tell me--" full-on gossip-mode now, "I mean, the French call orgasm le petit mort, oui?"

Moira is probably the right person to be dating Az, considering that a lot of girls, um, would probably not properly appreciate that little perk.

"No? Really? Jesus, Amo'." She pushes the glasses up onto her forehead, eyes crinkling gently against the light.

"You've only had like a billion years to try. He's not /all/ death and the inevitable entropy of the universe. Not in bed, anyway."

He shrugs, the red jacket kind of flopping a bit with the motion, the way suit jackets do.

"Well! The idea's just a little, you know." Except apparently she didn't know, because nothing had stopped her.

"But that's good to hear-- I'll be sure to hit on him." Anyone else saying that, it'd be facetious, but Amor means it.

Moira doesn't know, and looks at him blankly until he makes his point.

"Oh, he'll appreciate it, I'm sure," she says airily, twiddling the straw around in the cup to stir it. There is too much caffeine and not enough booze, but she'll probably just get another one to compensate.

"How's business?"

He grins. Hopefully Az will appreciate it, but it's rare that people don't, so. Maybe Az was secretly feeling left out.

"Can I get you another drink?" he offers, because it's sort of part of his thing-- manifesting booze, you know. Hard to get anything done without it.

"Business is pretty good! Except people's lovers keep dying." He doesn't say this in that way some guys have of making a subtle dig at a girl's boyfriend, but rather, like death were a minor setback. Mortality Herpes. Or something.

"Mostly everyone's pretty into sodomy. Sodomy was a really good idea."

Moira listens, looking bemused and offering commentary every so often; "Certainly, if you like- Well, yes, I can imagine that's a problem every so often- you might talk to him, I'm sure you can work something out unless it's to your advantage already, I don't know."

At the last, she half-smirks and puts her chin in her hand. "I can imagine."

He does his boozy thing, not always as ready with it as Di would be, but certainly able to conjure a glass of something here and there when it contributes to being good company. What's in her cup now is about two parts Baily's to one part coffee, which is really much better anyway.

"It's not so bad," he concludes. "Then they have to find new lovers, anyway."

He realizes, though, that he's being selfish. (Possibly this is the first such realization in all of Gods history. Or at least in the first twenty.)

"How's business for you, then. What...do you actually do?"

If pressed, he would say she hung out.

Moira tastes it, and it is very tasty indeed ((roffles)).

"Oh," she says, waving a hand vaguely, "I just- hang out. Keep track of things. Make messes once in a while, you know how it is. Business is doing alright."